Thrill
by shinobiNoir
Summary: Seemingly random killings are being orchestrated all across London. Sherlock Holmes, a self-proclaimed teenage consulting detective, is on the case, but even he can't deduce how far he'll be dragged into the whirlwind character of James Moriarty, the number one suspect. / Sheriarty AU /
1. Prologue

"And what do you intend to bring as proof?"

The sparse grass bent under the weight of a cigarette that had been tossed to the ground.

"Whatever I want to."

Usually, renowned mafia leaders didn't allow this sort of disrespect. Then again, renowned mafia leaders didn't usually hire amateur assassins. Or assassins in general. There were plenty of guys that could get the job done.

But there was something about this kid.

Moriarty--or that's what he _said_ his name was--ground out his cigarette and grinned. Leonardo was used to that grin, but the guards he had stationed around him weren't. The sound of hands flying up to rest upon the metal of the guns in their waistbands was deafening.

"I'll. . .catch you later," he said.

Leonardo signaled to his right-hand man, Sebastian. A knife went flying through the air, aiming to make contact with the back of the kid's neck.

But before anyone knew what had happened, Moriarty had twisted and grabbed the knife from midair.

He grinned that bone-chilling psychopathic grin once more, and then he was gone.

However, as Leonardo moved to leave, a piece of paper lying on the ground caught his eye. It was nestled neatly between two stalks of long, untamed grass.

 _"Be careful what you wish for._

 _£80,000"_

Leonardo shoved the paper in his pocket and chuckled darkly.

"Alright, boys, we're going to the bank!"


	2. One

Sherlock groaned and settled into his armchair, moving his arm from where it rested across his eyes.

The blinding light did absolutely nothing for his hangover, so he just closed his eyes again. He was about ninety-six percent sure John would yell at him for being _"irresponsible"._ Just because John was 20, he thought he was Sherlock's dad or something.

 _Well, I'm 18, and I can take care of myself._ As he opened his eyes again, his headache went from "really fucking bad" to "splitting torture".

Maybe he _could_ ask Mrs Hudson to come up and make him some tea before John gets back from his morning coffee exploit.

Sherlock stood up and wobbled over to the kitchen, where the house telephone had last been placed. But before he could dial Mrs Hudson's phone number, the sound of the door being unlocked and opened sent Sherlock stumbling towards the loo, tripping over himself, and knowing he would be able to lock himself in only milliseconds before John's unmistakable footsteps would stop at the top step.

"Sherlock Holmes!"

Sherlock sighed and, feeling acid bite at the back of his throat, promptly threw up in the toilet.

 _No wonder this would happen just as John shows up. This is actually how people usually react to his presence, except with less of a hangover._

"I know you were drinking yesterday! What the hell were you thinking? Just because you recently turned 18 doesn't mean you can go and abuse it! Where did you even buy that much alcohol?"

Sherlock laughed a little before grimacing as his head pounded angrily.

"I'm just self-destructive, John. Like with you and your countless girlfriends."

"Sherlock," he warned, "Stop it, you're being stupid."

No response.

"There's been another murder like the one on A1."

Behind the bathroom wall, unknown to John, Sherlock's head shot up, a large, smug grin on his face.

Sherlock had solved his first case at 14, and ever since then, he had been allowed to work in the labs _and_ he gained access to evidence restricted to the public. But even though this desicion was perfectly legal, some of the higher-ups and even officers that worked closely with John (also a police officer) still distrusted Sherlock.

Sherlock unlocked the door.

As John stepped in, Sherlock motioned with his hand, signalling for John to help him up.

"Well?" he asked.

John would never admit it, but he grew used to and even felt as if Sherlock's customary bluntness was endearing.

"His head was completely severed. And just like the last one, he was known to have connections with drug dealings."

John explained the rest as he made breakfast.

"Apparently, he had gotted into deep debt with the mafia. We found a bunch of money stashed in his flat, so the most logical assumption would be--"

"--That the mafia hired a hitman to take care of him because they knew that he had the money, and they needed it. Wrong."

"What?"

"It's not that simple. Never is."

At John's incredulous look, Sherlock sighed.

"If I could go to the crime scene--"

"We had really thought we solved it without you."

There was a beat of silence.

"Of course you did. It was an easy enough assumption to make. Easy enough even for you. Now, as I was _saying,_ I need to get to the crime scene _now._ "

John sighed. It was going to be a long day.


	3. Two

Sherlock was confused.

And that's actually very serious, because it never happens when his brain is working.

But this time, he was just utterly and completely stumped.

There was nothing on the body that indicated how he had died, aside from his head, which was absent. But it was clear that the head had been removed after death. There wasn't even any trace of blood, everything was absolutely spotless.

He had thought poison, but the victim's blood was clean of any contamination. He didn't even drink any sort of alcohol.

Sherlock put his hands in his head and sighed. This was the first time he had ever been truly fooled. He was angry. He was humiliated. Even Sherlock Holmes couldn't figure out what the hell had happened.

Or, at least, that's what Moriarty thought was going on. In actuality, he was just observing the cameras he set up in the morgue.

Sherlock looked so frustrated. It was delicious.

Moriarty was ahead of the game in so many ways. He was just so excited, he could barely hold it in!

He had a genius plan and an arch nemisis!

He smiled smugly and decided to walk to the park that was nearby his rundown flat building. Maybe he would even try and meet Sherlock! Like an undercover agent from those American spy movies!

This is the best mood I've been in since Leonardo hired me, he mused.

It was surprisingly sunny for an Autumn day in London. Even the weather belonged to him. The whole, entire world was his for the taking if he wanted it.

A genuine smile graced his lips as he walked on light feet, and for the first time in his life, people didn't turn away, frightened. He barely even noticed.

Soon enough, he was laying on his back under a large oak tree. He just layed there and thought about how he would meet Sherlock Holmes.

His smile faded, but the glimmer in his eyes did not.

Sherlock usually took a cab to the local park to clear his nerves. Maybe because nature relaxed him. More likely, it was because no one barely went there, and therefore would not tell him that he couldn't smoke.

However, when he arrived at his usual spot, he saw someone splayed out on the ground, their head resting on their forearms.

"Hello?" he called, "Are you alright?"

The person shifted and their eyes blinked open. They were the blackest eyes he'd ever seen. An unnatural shiver rolled down his back. Those eyes had a lot of secrets.

They propped themselves up on their forearms.

"Oh, hello."

 _What an odd person_ , Sherlock thought as he stared with his mouth slightly agape.

"I'm Jim."

Sherlock shook out of his daze and gripped the hand that the man offered.

"Sherlock."

Jim settled back down onto his back and ignored Sherlock.

He shrugged and decided to just sit next to him and smoke and think. It didn't look like Jim would bother him about smoking, seeing as they looked about the same age.

Suddenly, Jim spoke up.

"Do you happen to work at Scotland Yard?"

Sherlock laughed a little.

"Yeah, sort of."

Jim sat up and scooted closer to Sherlock. His black eyes gazed into Sherlock's with this inhuman intensity.

"I'm going to start working there tomorrow. I've been moving around for a while, and this is the first job I think I really want."

Sherlock sighed and watched the smoke from his cigarette dissipate in the wind.

"What did you apply for?"

Jim smiled.

"Detective."


End file.
